roommates

I may have mentioned this before, but it is a matter of fact that every roommate I have ever had has ended up engaged while we were roommates. This makes no statement about the personalities or looks of my roommates -- "Sure," you're thinking, "if your roommate is J.Lo, they probably got engaged six or seven times a year anyway," -- which have varied widely through the years. There have been some who were almost confirmed nuns, who subsequently fell to the Might of the Mating Mojo, and still others I sincerely thought were 24/7 lesbians of the cabbage-eating castrating kind. I also specify 'engaged' as opposed to 'married,' because there's always a small gap between engagement and marriage. The Mojo doesn't seem inclined to exert any effort beyond the production of a ring and promise. Anything further, it apparently thinks, is gravy.

"...which means that if you end up my roommate," I told the Guy one night, "you might end up married."

There was a vast, heavy silence. The Guy slowly started to look hunted.

After about a year of "all but name," the Guy and I have finally moved in together. Officially. It's been about that long since the Guy has spent any significant time in his own apartment; with his rent as high as it was, he was easily paying for the most expensive storage space and mailbox in all of Silicon Valley. Excuse me. Storage space, mailbox, and DSL connection.

It's been almost two years since we first started dating. My lackadaisical grasp on time means I'm not sure exactly when we started, and unless Tara keeps a social calendar at least two years old, it's likely we'll never know. The Guy, who is equally fluid on remembering holidays and anniversaries, makes vague noises about Easter --April 25th, isn't that? -- before picking some arbitrary, invariably different date. Neither of us are big on celebration; I slept through Valentine's Day, too tired from my trip to V----- to care about anything resembling romance.

Of course, there's that whole 'everything is on the 25th' philosophy, which works so well for me. All we have to do is pick a month, and rewrite reality to suit us. I do it so often anyway, it hardly matters.

My other roommate, having gotten herself engaged on the strength of my Mojo -- which I should really charge for, all things considered -- and, possibly, her own personality, charm and looks, moved out the day after the Guy moved in.

A month previously, I mentioned to her that we had started looking at places together. "Not seriously," I hastened to assure her. It took us two months of discussion and exchanging links to Craigslist ads before we actually went as far as to inspect a house for rent. At that rate, it would likely be another two years before we'd gotten organized enough to find something. "I just thought I ought to tell you."

Wide-eyed, she went back to watching Friends. A few days later while I was down in V----, henceforth known as "The Cow," she sent me an email. "If I move out, would you and the Guy be interested in moving in?"

"Hell, yes," I wrote back. And then called the Guy.

Of course, I immediately felt bad. The Guy, having spent all of his nights at my apartment since our first anniversary -- also not commemorated by any recognition, reference, or celebration on our part -- has basically been a third roommate, with some of the mess and none of the rent. "Are we driving you out?" I asked my roommate when I got back into town.

"Yes," she said.

(I'm kidding. She didn't really.)

The Guy sent out a bulletin, and on Friday gathered three friends, all conveniently unemployed, to help him with the moving. Six years of living in the same apartment had accumulated more than any man's fair share of junk in a surprisingly small space. For two weeks before move-out day, he went every night to the apartment and called me at The Cow. ("The Cow." You see how well that works out? So much more descriptive than 'V-----.' 'I'm visiting The Cow.' 'I'm in The Cow.' 'I called from The Cow.') "I packed another four boxes," he'd report at 10:00 pm.

"Good for you!" I'd say.

"I'm heading home now." It was already 'Home.' Of course, it had been 'Home' for a while already.

And the next night. "I packed another four boxes."

Every night for two weeks. And when we all showed upon Friday to help him move, each person in turn stopped to stare at some part of the mess. One box held an ergonomic keyboard encrusted with the soda, crud, dust, and slime of several years. Two of his friends paused to gather around the box and poke at it with hangers. "He touches that thing?" one of them asked with mingled awe and disgust.

"He actually uses it," I told them.

Usually, grown men don't make this sound. This was an exceptional case. "Eeeeeeeeeeewww."

I overheard one of them while I was moving a box out of the truck. "Thirty-six boxes?! How can you already have thirty-six boxes in the apartment when you haven't even moved yet?" I came back from The Cow to find an entire wall of my apartment gobbled by boxes. Boxes of cables. Boxes of books. Two more boxes full of 200 more DVDs. And he hadn't even moved yet.

It took three days to clean the mildew out of his bathroom. Two more days to empty his kitchen. At one point, I snapped and gobbled at him. "See! This is why I'm scared to have you move in! You're a slob! A slob!"

After all, it had been at least a year since he'd done anything remotely resembling 'living' in that apartment. A word to the wise. Simple Green is amazing stuff. It's natural, it's biodegradeable, it's lemony fresh! It cuts through any stain or spot, and can clean even the worst of your mold and mildew problems. (NotForUseInEnclosedSpaces, BreathingSentientBeingsShouldBeware, NotMeantForInhalation.)

It's a week later, and we're still unpacking. This past weekend I did sixteen loads of laundry. Heisenburg, watching me load the dryer for the ninth time, commented: "You're turning into a woman."

I swore at him. Damned invisible cat didn't even turn a hair.

"Your mother will kill you," he said smugly.

Clock's ticking. Ask me if I've told her yet. Go ahead. Ask. Ask.